Canvas
by Tafferling
Summary: Home is where the heart is. Where your wifi auto connects, and your fridge has got a full row of eggs stocked, and none of that low-fat-bs-milk. Mostly though, home's where Chris Redfield wanders without gear on his shoulders, and I get to label him as I see fit.


**H** ome is where the heart is. Where your wifi auto connects, and your fridge has got a full row of eggs stocked, and none of that low-fat-bs-milk. Mostly though, home's where Chris Redfield wanders without gear on his shoulders, and I'm free to pad about in socks, sweats and something heavy, soft— and mostly dreadful if we're going to be honest about it.

I'm fond of home. How can't I be. Fond of him in his favourite grey t-shirt (one of the many variations of it, at any rate) and that pair of sweatpants with the green waistband. There's a neatly tied loop on that, one I can't _not_ tug on whenever he shuffles by.

Yeah, temptation and me have always had a volatile relationship. _Tug-tug-tug_ I'll go, and he'll swipe at my rump with the palm of his hand and reward me with a throaty grunt of fake protest.

Home is that, and it's worrying what's on telly— or him being a terrible backseat gamer full of bad advice and an excuse of _I'm too old for this shit_. Nevermind that he still beats me a good three out of five times if I'm daft enough to challenge him, so what gives?

Tonight though, home is quiet. It's him exhausted and beat from a deployment that's got him limping and aching, so the most of what he's interested in is a sum of _fuck all_ until it's time to squash a pillow under his ear.

I plant bare feet on the coffee table, my cold toes curled together tight, and balance a pad of paper on a knee. There's a half finished sketch of some fantastic dream covering half the page. It's shoddy. Real shoddy, and I tap the black marker pen against the paper while I whistle through its cap held between my lips and wonder how to fix it. But the movie on the telly distracts me a little, my eyes idly cutting between the drawing and Toothless enthusiastically bucking through the skies with a distressed Hiccup on his back. Right then, somewhere between a half disaster and some grand aerial acrobatics of dragon and Viking, Chris huffs next to me. An amused huff, I note, and when I look at him he's got a small smile on his lips.

Yeah, who'd have thought? Chris Redfield; Veteran Field Captain of the B.S.A.A, an occasional sampler of animated movies? Either that, or he's too weary to grope for the remote.

Nah, I like to think he's full of surprises, that one. And I hope to be fishing more wonders out of this steel drum of a man for a long while yet to come. It's… nice.

Much like the gentle curl of his lips, how it lifts into the light shadow of his stubble and breaks up his hard features. And then he laughs. A small laugh, much like that smile, but that doesn't mean I don't get my heart squeezed, because those laughs come around as often as snow donuts. Or blue moons. Or good men.

He catches on to me staring and shoots me a glance. Well. There's one sitting here. A good man, not a snow donut. But my point still stands. His brow arches, an unspoken _What_ dancing about in his muddy blue eyes. _Nothing,_ I almost say, but then my eyes flick to my pen. Then back at him. Back to the pen. Back at him.

 _Hmmm—_ Inspiration strikes with a giddy little jolt and I'm wiggling in my seat while he looks on with just the faintest hint of alarm.

I grab for his arm and tow myself across the couch and closer to him. Chris watches, but doesn't protest. He's the sort that makes a show of not being big on affectionate gestures. Keeps them private. Keeps them simple. Meaningful. Me? I'm not that reserved, and I know he's a fan, even if he's not about to admit it.

He smiles when I lift his arm and drape it atop my knees. The sketch pad is forgotten. Slides right off and onto the carpet. It was going shit anyway, no one's going to miss it.

While the drawing gets cozy with the floor, and he turns back to the telly, I study the hand splayed out on my knee. It's a big hand. Heavy. Scarred. The clear ridges of veins run under well worn skin beat at by time and sun and work alike, and a dusting of coarse hair tracks over the ridge and up along his arm. I flip the hand, tap my fingers against his.

I love these hands. Their texture, every rough calloused patch and the soft bits between. How they can be unrelenting. Firm. But also incredibly tender and gentle with a knack for fine details.

I'd been on both ends.

My thumb slides into his palm, has a go at divining his past and future from the landscape of deep furrows. There are horrible things written in there. But a few good ones too, except mostly I read what's for dinner: Chicken stir fry. It's right there, plain as day, in how this one intersects with that other one. I trace a path back out over the heel of his hand, right down along the dark lines of veins under his skin, and then I finally get to work. The pen flicks up and then down, and I set the tip just below the sinews stretching along his wrist.

 _ **Skånsom**_ _,_ I write. Careful and at an awkward angle, with my breath whistling through the cap pinched between my lips. His pulse shudders against my thumb.

Chris blinks down at the letters once I'm done, and after a slow pump of his fingers asks: "What's that mean?"

I turn my head and puff the pen cap from my mouth. It lands on the table with a few muted clacks. "Gentle."

His brows rock up while I track my knuckles under the words. My handwriting is atrocious.

"And I've got more." The pen waggles between my fingers. When he doesn't protest, I set it down again, land the tip on the firm, warm skin of his forearm.

Unlike me, he tans easy, that lucky bastard. Though on his arms the light nutty colour of his skin only serves to make his fading scars pop out glaringly. There are plenty of them, left by god knows what or who, and I focus my attention on the discoloured patch of a well healed burn.

 _ **Skaists**_ I write across it, whisper, "Handsome" for his benefit.

"You think so?"

"Mhmm—"

Chris breathes out a quiet, well contained laugh. "All right. Keep going."

I shoot him a sideways glance, startled. Here I'd been thinking that this'd be as far as he'd let me paint him, but if I'm going to get permissions, then who am I to disappoint?

My lips slant down in a frown. "I'm running out of space though."

"Liar."

"Nuh-huh—" The frown is hard to hold and crumbles quickly into a smile. With a drag on his arm and a light push, I swing a leg up to straddle him. My knee digs between him and the couch arm, wedges in tight.

His hands go for a bit of a hike while I'm busy wiggling myself down on his lap. They leave a trail of tender warmth along my sides, right until they come to rest on my rump. And then the bastard peeks over me and laughs at the telly.

I'll never grow tired of his laugh. Truth be told, I can't rightfully think of many things I love more than that particular sound rumbling in his chest. Well. Okay. Maybe the feel of him rocking about under me while he's chortling away comes in a close second right now.

"Nevermind me," I mumble with mock irritation while he goes on to ignore me. Least to have a good go at pretending. I grab the bottom end of his shirt, start to pull it up. Slow and steady, my knuckles dragging against the collected heat on his skin, until the collar catches on his chin.

"Work with me here?"

He lifts his arms and the shirt whispers up a little further. Not _all_ the way. Just enough to cover his head and block out the movie. I press in closer, drawn to warmth like an eager little moth. My nose goes to look for his, plays a little hide and seek while he's stuck under the shirt. A gentle bump here. A brief touch over the bridge of his nose there. Until he pushes his legs up and I get shoved forward to bump my forehead against his.

 _Fine._ The shirt comes off.

 _Oops—_ He blinks. Perks a brow. His eyes settle on me, and I study the shreds of brown in the stormy blue of them as they flick left and right like he's studying me in turn. And then I give his hair a half hearted pat in an attempt to put it back in order. Though I admit I like it when that usually well behaved, short cut of his gets all ruffled. How it scatters the bits of gray in it, that hint of salt along his temples giving away the years he's carried. He's got some in the evening stubble on his cheeks and chin too.

"Oh," I say and poke a finger two inches away from his ear. "You've got a new gray hair."

He grunts. "And whose fault is that?"

"Huhm— Probably Piers?"

Chris drops his arms back down, sets his hands against my rump again. Squeezes. He mouths _Yours_ at me, and I flick the pen at the tip of his nose. Then I bunch the shirt together and chuck it on the backrest before I get settled in better on his lap. And then I stare for a little while and sift through words in my head. They don't come easy though, because he's distracting. From his broad shoulders, the sharp lines of his collarbone, and the shadow of coarse hair that gathers on his chest and dives down in a dark line before it vanishes into the band of his slacks.

There are marks on him most everywhere I look. He's got them all over, and I've spent a lot of time memorising them. Tacked memories to them, some of them lived, others told. Most told, to be fair. They're terrifying.

"So?" he interrupts my study, right as I think of the badly scarred stitches left behind by a horrible Christmas day. Yeah. Terrifying. My eyes dart up to him, catch him once again not looking, his stare glued to the telly.

"Art doesn't like being rushed," I chide and adjust my seating with a few wiggles until I'm resting snug against his pelvis. He exhales a somewhat shaky breath in response and his hands go back to busying themselves on my rump.

Damn stubborn, that man.

Leaning forward, my hand splayed out on his wide shoulder, I let the pen get back to work.

 _ **Tendre**_ _,_ I write above his collarbone. His eyes flick down.

 _Finally,_ I think. But his attention is short lived. Or at least he's making an effort to get back to watching dragons and vikings do their thing, whatever that thing may currently be. His jaw flexes as he wrestles with a smile. One more shift of my weight, and an unfocused look settles in his eyes, telling me he's not really fussed about the vikings and dragons any more at all, but he'll be damned if he'll let on that fact.

It's a game he likes playing.

And a game I like winning.

So while he keeps his gaze stubbornly set forward, I go and refill my vocabulary.

I arc my back away from him, my hip snapping forward with the movement, and twist until I reach my phone lying on the table. Stretching far as I can, I almost topple backwards once, but he props me up with a gentle hand resting against the base of my spine, only to let his fingers glide back down the moment I'm sat straight again.

"Give me a sec," I mumble while I swipe the phone on and start looking for a matching word to go with the next piece on him. _Hello Google translate my old friend._ It doesn't take long and I've stocked up on a few, toss the phone back onto the couch, and move on to his left arm.

 _ **Veli**_ **,** I write just below the curve of his shoulder. "Brother."

He hums.

It's got two meanings, that one. Brother to a wonderful woman, one much prettier than him, which I let him know often enough. And brother in arms to those who'll trust him with their lives.

I move to the right next. Put the marker down on his biceps, and paint _**Fort**_ on that particular piece of well maintained muscle. Perfect a spot as any, no? The _t_ smudges at the end though, leaves an unwanted blotch, so I shuffle closer and lean in to wipe away the ink. For a little while, I linger there. Take a drag of air. Ink. Fabric softener. Soap. And a familiar scent of his skin. Rainy days, a promise of earthy grit and passion.

Nothing can hide it all the way. And hardly a thing is better.

Once the word is cleaned up, I straighten and ride my hip forward slightly. My reward is a slow exhale of air that almost gets stuck halfway up in a throaty sigh. Might be I'll win this yet.

Back to the canvas: the next piece of it squarely in front of me. _**Mutig**_ _,_ I write gently over his chest, stretch the word diagonally and go out of my way to have it cross his heart— and that a line goes right over a nipple, because why not. For that I get a grunt and a hearty squeeze of my rump.

"Brave?" Chris asks.

"Richtig," I say, and he gives a faint nod. He likes me speaking German, though I've got no clue whatsoever whyever he would.

But anyway. Moving on. With his chest labelled appropriately, because I don't know a man more willing to put himself in harm's way for the good of someone else, I hunch forward and lower the pen to his abdomen.

 _ **Amante**_ _,_ I write. The line of dark hair gets in the way though, so I have to space the letters out a little. And apparently the whole deal tickles. His muscles flex under the tip of the pen and he puffs out a quiet chuckle.

"Hold still," I mutter, since now the lines are all wonky and I have to try again. That, and the line of dark hair diving down into his trousers gets in the way. Ama nte the word ends up reading, with the letters a bit bent. And because he's caused me trouble, I duck down and blow air at the ink. A few more twitches later, I lean back, prop my hands up on his knees behind me, and look him up and down.

And he looks back. He's staring, actually, and carries a small, crestfallen frown.

"That's it?"

I blink. "Getting a little cocky, are we?"

Chris shrugs. "You tell me."

"All right. I have one more." Scoot-scoot-scoot, and I'm almost perched on his knees so I can grab the band of his slacks and pull them down. Slightly, mind you. And careful.

"Well," he hums up there somewhere. "You didn't have to go through all the trouble just to get my pants off."

"Shush." Said pants stay on, I decide, but they hitch low enough so I can put the pen down above the line of neatly trimmed pubic hair. He looks after himself. Really, what's _not_ to like?

What's not the like at all?

 _ **Mine**_ _,_ I paint, one careful letter after the other, and sign it with a flourish.

When I look up, he's got an odd smile on him. Slow and slightly lopsided. And quite weighty, his eyes heavily lidded. He steals the pen. Swipes it right from my fingers before he pulls me forward, his hands hooked into my knees. One of the hands tracks up along my spine, and settles firm around my neck. Locks me right in place. The corners of his mouth hitch up a little higher, turn the smile to an inviting grin. Playful.

And that's home too.

The comfort of things found rarely anywhere else.

A warm finger drags the collar of my jumper down, rolls it over my shoulder to bare a little more skin. He carefully twists my head back, and the tip of the pen lands a heartbeat later, a light touch on the ridge of my collarbone.

I count the letters— one, two, three, four— and a warm, scratchy kiss down the curve of my neck.

Yeah. Home is pretty damn nice.


End file.
